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TO A YOUNG CHILD

As doth his heart who travels far from home
Leap up whenever he by chance doth see
One from his mother-country lately come,
Friend from
my home thus do I welcome

thee.

Thou art so late arrived that I the tale
Of thy high lineage on thy brow can trace,
And almost feel the breath of that soft gale
That wafted thee unto this desert place,
And half can hear those ravishing sounds
that flowed

From out Heaven's gate when it was oped for thee,

That thou awhile mightst leave thy bright abode

Amid these lone and desolate tracks to be A homesick, weary wanderer, and then Return unto thy native land again.

Eliza Scudder

THE VIRGIN

MOTHER! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied;
Woman! above all women glorified,

Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;

Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak

strewn

With fancied roses, than the unblemished

moon

Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast;

Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,

As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!
William Wordsworth

THANKSGIVING AFTER

CHILDBIRTH

WOMAN! the Power who left his throne on

high,

And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we

wear,

The Power that thro' the straits of Infancy
Did pass dependent on maternal care,
His own humanity with Thee will share,
Pleased with the thanks that in his People's

eye

Thou offerest up for safe Delivery

From Childbirth's perilous throes. And should the Heir

Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined
To courses fit to make a mother rue

That ever he was born, a glance of mind
Cast upon this observance may renew
A better will; and, in the imagined view
Of thee thus kneeling, safety he may find.
William Wordsworth

MY MOTHER

THERE was a gather'd stillness in the room: Only the breathing of the great sea rose From far off, aiding that profound repose, With regular pulse and pause within the gloom

Of twilight, as if some impending doom Was now approaching;—I sat moveless there, Watching with tears and thoughts that were like prayer,

Till the hour struck, the thread dropp'd from the loom;

And the Bark pass'd in which freed souls are borne.

The dear still'd face lay there; that sound forlorn

Continued; I rose not, but long sat by: And now my heart oft hears that sad seashore, When she is in the far-off land, and I

Wait the dark sail returning yet once more.

William Bell Scott

EVENING

AGE cannot wither her whom not gray hairs Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall

of Time;

For Spring lies hidden under Winter's rime,
And violets know the victory is theirs.
Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares,
Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime;
So Etna's hardening crust a more sublime
Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares.
O face yet fair, if paler, and serene
With sense of duty done without complaint!
O venerable crown!- a living green,
Strength to the weak, and courage to the
faint

Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, have but

been

Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint!

Wendell Phillips Garrison

TO MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER

SONNETS are full of love, and this my tome Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose

knee

I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome; Whose service is my special dignity, And she my lodestar while I go and come.

And so because you love me, and because I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath

Of rhymes wherewith to crown your

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